Lord Have Mercy on the Frozen Man
by ExEphemera
Summary: When Lucius Malfoy hits Severus with a curse of Lucius' own invention, Severus must grapple with the consequences. Will Hogwarts' resident know-it-all find a way to thaw his heart? AU, primarily HG/SS, with DM/RW as well.
1. Chapter 1

"I know what it means to freeze to death, to lose a little life with every breath.

To say goodbye to life on earth and come around again,

Lord have mercy on the frozen man."

-James Taylor, "The Frozen Man"

"Severusss... Come forward."

The Dark Lord's hiss cut through the Cruciatus haze in Severus's mind. Severus set his jaw and stepped forward, kneeling. The coldness of the marble floor under his knee gave him something on which to focus, drawing his consciousness away from the lingering aches in his arms and legs.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"I'd like you and Lucius to stay behind for a moment. The rest of you are dismissed."

The hall echoed with sharp cracks as the hooded and masked Death Eaters departed one by one. For a long minute, silence fell, and Severus resisted the feeling that the heavy tapestries on the walls were closing in.

"Lucius has been working on a new spell as of late. Has he mentioned that?"

Voldemort sounded almost conversational, and Severus's stomach clenched. A chatty Dark Lord was never a good sign.

"I didn't know, My Lord. I hope it serves you well."

"Don't pretend to fawn, Severus. It doesn't fit you. I'd like Lucius to put on a little demonstration for us. You'll be the first to witness it, I've heard. Consider this a reward for... Loyalty."

"Thank you, My Lord."

Voldemort chuckled, a gravelly sound that set Severus's vertebrae on edge, and withdrew slightly as Lucius stepped forward. Severus met the Malfoy patriarch's gaze, and the steely eyes glinting behind the silver mask seemed to be laughing. Severus made to get to his feet, and Lucius waved his hand.

"Don't get up."

Fuck. The word reverberated through Severus's mind like a chant. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"It's funny. When I first scraped you off of the dungeon floor as a sniveling whelp, you looked at me like I was your savior. I brought you to the Dark Lord, to power, prestige, a place to belong. A place where the talents of a man of your... disposition would be appreciated. How fitting it is for it to be me to return you to a useless wretch on the ground."

"My Lord, I don't understand."

Voldemort remained in his position off to the side, unmoved and unmoving. As Snape watched, he lifted his claw of a hand and began to inspect the nearly translucent talons for dirt.

"You're far too clever of a man to pretend to be an idiot, Severus. I've suspected you for a while, and I had Lucius keep a close eye on you. You've put on quite a performance in the last few months. You've caused poor Lucius to come to me with nothing to report for far longer than I'd like. Speaking of which, Crucio!"

Lucius gasped and staggered, taken aback. He bent double and grunted, tangling his fingers in his silvery hair until Voldemort lowered his wand. Heaving ragged breaths, he straightened his spine and staggered slightly, his normally glossy mane disheveled and sweat dripping from underneath his mask. His icy, aristocratic demeanor slipped slightly, and Severus saw raw rage slipping through the cracks.

Severus couldn't resist quirking a mocking eyebrow at Lucius. He was a dead man anyway-might as well find a way to spit in his murderer's eye on the way down. Lucius snarled and lunged.

"Patience, Lucius."

Lucius stepped back, straightening his robes and panting.

"As I was saying, you're quite the slippery one, Severus, and your skills were far too valuable to me to throw you away without due cause. I had to be completely sure. Until tonight."

Voldemort stepped forward and stood over Severus, all pretenses of pretend boredom dropped. He grabbed the front of Severus's robes and dragged him up.

"Did you think that you got away with pretending to kill that mudblood brat today?" Voldemort bellowed, drops of his spittle stinging Severus's cheek. "Do you take me for a fool?"

Voldemort flung Severus, sending him sprawling hard onto his elbow and tailbone on the stone floor.

"Lucius, deal with him."

"Certainly, my Lord. What did the muggle-loving old bastard offer you to make you turn? You're too damned cold to turn traitor for any noble reasons." Lucius scoffed. "In any event, you made the wrong choice."

Lucius raised his wand and jerked it in a tight, complicated pattern.

"Constringitur sanguinis!"

A jet of blue-white light hit Severus in the chest, and he shivered. He looked down at his body. Two arms, two legs, ten fingers, no noticeable injuries. Severus shivered again, and he could feel goosebumps all over his skin.

"Was that it?" He faked a barking laugh as his brain translated the Latin and recorded the wand movements. "You've made me catch a chill? Will I get a sniffle?"

"Oh, you'll see. Now run along to your true master like a good little lapdog. I'm sure he won't want to miss watching you die."

Lucius's manic laughter echoed in his ears as Severus Apparated away.

Hermione stood in the kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, shifting from foot to foot. Her fuzzy socks slipped on the flagstone, and she stilled, grabbing for the edge of the work surface to steady herself. She leaned forward, letting her forehead touch the rough finish of the cabinet, and she forced herself to breathe out slowly through her nose. He'd be fine, she told herself, before she set her jaw and stood up straight. With enough force of willpower, she could just about convince herself that the gnawing feeling in her stomach that had brought her downstairs to the kitchen was the urge for a midnight snack.

Five minutes later, with a magically steaming mug of milky hot chocolate and a massive slab of Mrs. Weasley's homemade bread slathered with enough butter to give a hippogriff a heart attack laid out in front of her, Hermione felt a tiny bit better. She ripped off chunk after chunk of the fluffy bread, plunging them into the frothy mug and fishing them out with a spoon, each bite dissolving on her tongue. After all her time and effort studying healing potions in school, her mother's remedy still managed to help more than anything else.

Hermione allowed herself a selfish moment to wish that she was still back in her parents' home, remembering how much nicer it had been just the previous evening, curled up with Crookshanks in her parents' sitting room, listening to her father's chortles at Are You Being Served? reruns in between the click-click-click of her mother's knitting needles. But when a letter from Professor Dumbledore arrived at your window, you didn't say no. Hermione had dutifully packed an overnight bag and Apparated to Headquarters.

As much as the petulant part of her mind whined "Why me," Hermione was glad that she was the one free to watch for Professor Snape's return. Mr. Weasley had matched of three of the five numbers on his Wizarding Lottery ticket, and with the 500 Galleon prize, Harry and the rest of the family were away in Cornwall on the first holiday the Weasley clan had been able to take in a very long time. Hermione chuckled as she remembered Mrs. Weasley's spluttering reaction to the suggestion of buggering off to the seaside in the middle of a war, but Professor Dumbledore himself had insisted, offering his own Fidelius-ed vacation cottage for their use and Order members on shifts to watch over them around the clock-funnily enough, there had been no shortage of volunteers for this beachside duty! The Weasleys had been in the thick of the war effort in the past few years, and a few weeks to recharge would be just the ticket to mend nerves and hold the family together.

They had invited Hermione, of course, but after mulling it over, she turned it down. She knew the summer before the start of her final year at Hogwarts would be the last time she would have to spend with her parents before she officially entered adulthood. With all of the tumult and atrocities she witnessed over the past six years, she relished this small morsel of time to reprise the role of just a being a normal daughter in the muggle world.

An unintended bright side of this, of course, was that Hermione was the only Order member currently idle enough for Dumbledore to call on for this favor while he himself was out of the country. Hermione grimaced, imagining how Harry or Ron would have reacted if Dumbledore's owl brought this letter through their bedroom window, asking them to come to Headquarters to wait up for Professor Snape. Hell, Hermione couldn't even picture what would happen if Professor Snape came home from who knows what horrible goings-on at the Death Eater meeting to find the Boy Who Lived to Be Hated by Snape to greet him. They'd be scraping bits of lighting bolt scar off of the walls for weeks.

Then again, how was he going to react to Hogwarts' resident know-it-all? Needless to say, Hermione wasn't exactly confident that she wouldn't end up shredded to bits by his sarcasm either. But she was fairly sure that beneath the sneer and condescention, there wasn't actual hatred toward her in Professor Snape's mind like there was for Harry... She hoped, anyway. Professor Dumbledore's letter led her to believe that it wouldn't be so bad. This was a routine meeting tonight, as far as any Death Eater activity could be considered routine. There were no known targets at the moment, and both Snape and Dumbledore concluded that tonight's gathering would simply be for Voldemort to take reports from each Death Eater, strategize, and debrief. Professor Snape would probably just Apparate in, share a few cutting remarks, and glug down the bottle of anti-tremor potion Hermione had ready on the rough-hewn kitchen table before going to sleep off the Cruciatus. Hermione would then have to simply spend the night in the house, check that Professor Snape was awake and functioning the next morning, and she was free to go on her merry way.

The unmistakable crack of Apparition made Hermione jump, her last spoonful of bread halfway to her mouth, and the sodden bite of toast plopped onto the table with a splat. She scooped it up and popped it in her mouth anyway, trusting in Mrs. Weasley's meticulous cleaning and the five second rule, and swallowed just as the kitchen door slammed open.

"Of course it's you... Bloody hell, this is just what I need."

Hermione sat up, spine ramrod straight, and she gripped her mug like a lifeline.

"Hello, Professor Snape. Here's your-"

Before she could even get the words out, Snape strode to the table and downed the potion in one gulp.

"Are you alright? Is there anything else you need?"

"No. Goodnight, Miss Granger"

"Goodnight, Professor."

The last thing Hermione heard as she watched the Professor's back retreating from the room was his voice, muttering, "Why is this damned house so bloody freezing?"

Hermione sat very still for a moment, processing what had just happened. He had been curt with her, for sure, and didn't seem at all thrilled to see her, but he hadn't been rude or cutting in the way he normally was in class or in the halls of Hogwarts. If anything, he had reacted as would anyone who was exhausted and sore after a long, difficult evening's work. Hermione shook her head and got up to wash up her dishes and make her way up to bed herself. If she ever told Ron and Harry that Professor Snape had been civil enough to wish her goodnight, they'd faint.

The next morning, Severus groaned, still mostly asleep, and pulled the ends of his pillow up to cover his ears. What the hell was that insufferable noise? What was the Granger girl doing? It sounded like a woodpecker from hell trying to drill into his very skull. He didn't need this, especially not now when he had to compose himself enough to find a way to tell Albus he was no longer useful to the Order. Severus knew he should have summoned the Headmaster as soon as he got back last night, but he just couldn't bring himself to tell the Granger girl, who looked so damned earnest and helpful when he walked in that it made him feel ill.

Severus jolted all the way to wakefulness when he noticed something that did not make the slightest bit of sense. His teeth were chattering. Violently. In late June.

He took stock of the rest of himself, and he shivered, wrapped up in the duvet up to his nose like a cocoon. Normally, after a night spent with the anti-tremor potion in his belly, he'd wake up naked and sticking to the bed, having discarded all clothes or coverings in his sleep. Excessive sweating was a side effect of the potion as it warmed the muscles to soothe the damaged nerves and tissue.

"What the hell?" he managed to swear, although his clacking molars made his words almost indistinguishable to his own ears.

He coaxed his body to sit up, and he poked his feet out of the duvet to search for his shoes. His toes were icy, and he could barely feel them inch along the floor. This was not good, not good at all.

Hermione, on the other hand, had been awake for more than an hour, cooking a fry-up so glorious that all other breakfasts would slink home in shame. When Dumbledore had written for her to stay to check on Snape in the morning, he couldn't have guessed that Hermione would take even that small order and run with it, using this as an opportunity to try yet again to impress the un-impressable Potions professor.

The smell of hot food, and more importantly, hot coffee, reached Severus's nose as he slowly made his way down the stairs. His stomach growled, and he nearly drooled. All the shivering was wearing him out, and his body desperately needed a refueling. He would have to Obliviate the Granger girl for sure after she saw him, though. He had tried to extricate himself from the duvet, but he was just too unbearably cold to do so, so he cast a warming charm onto the goose down monstrosity, threw it over himself like a cape, and consigned himself to the inevitable ridicule. Potter and Weasley would hear about this for sure, and his classes would be absolutely uncontrollable once the news spread from there.

"Professor?" Hermione's startled shriek sliced into Severus's eardrums as she dropped the frying pan onto the burner and rushed over. "What's happened? What's wrong?"

"Don't burn the food, you silly girl. I need to eat."

Hermione piled his plate high with five rashers of bacon, three fried eggs, two massive planks of toast, and a mountain of beans. She had barely set it down in front of Snape when he began shovelling it into his mouth with an air of desperation.

"Coffee," he rasped around a heaping mouthful.

Hermione fetched the stoneware pint tankard that Hagrid used for his tea when he called at Headquarters, and she filled it to the brim from the cafetiere. She knew from countless breakfasts in the Great Hall that he didn't take milk but would surreptitiously add a single sugar cube to the strong black brew when he thought nobody was looking. She plunked one in before she stirred and placed the mug into his extended hands.

He sipped it down immediately, not bothering to let it cool even for a moment.

Hermione sat, slowly eating a piece of toast more to have something to do with her hands while he ate than any hunger of her own. She had hoped the breakfast would meet with his satisfaction, but nothing like this! And to have him come down basically wearing his bed-what was going on?

"Don't just sit there nibbling like a hamster. Take the Floo to my storeroom and get the strongest warming potion I have. Don't bother with that Pepperup piss. Get me the Draught of Fireflower. Last cabinet on the left, bottom shelf, all the way to the back. The password is 'Alihotsy,' as there isn't time for you to break the wards... again. Then owl Albus and tell him to get here as soon as possible."

Hermione blanched. So he knew about her theft years ago? She scurried toward the fireplace. No time to worry about that! Draught of Fireflower was intense and rarely used, only safe to give to patients with the worst cases of severe hypothermia. If it wasn't given to a patient extremely diluted, it could literally burn them from the inside out. For Professor Snape to be asking for that... She didn't even want to think about the implications.


	2. Chapter 2

"'_Constringitur sanguinis,' _you said?"

Albus Dumbledore, having rushed home from his meeting with the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic's foreign secretary, settled into a worn armchair in Number 12's sitting room, his brow furrowed and no sign of a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. An aged clock carved with the leering face of a jarvey tolled noon.

Snape nodded. He was still shivering, but the Fireflower draught coupled with more anti-tremor potion had managed to quell the shaking to a manageable level.

"I'm sorry. I haven't heard of any similar curses with that incantation."

"Damn. It's as I suspected, another one of Lucius's clever little 'inventions.' No wonder the Dark Lord puts up with having his pompous arse around. So my cover is blown, as the muggles would say, and I'm cursed to freeze to death, to boot. Isn't this just wonderful."

"Nobody is freezing to death on my watch, my boy, I can promise you that. We will find a way to fix this."

Rarely had Hermione heard Professor Dumbledore sound so forceful, and she felt herself let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The two Professors seemed to have forgotten she was in the room, perched on a footstool near the door. She hadn't been expressly told to leave when Dumbledore arrived, but she hadn't exactly been involved in the conversation, either. She just couldn't shake the feeling that she had failed Professor Dumbledore, and it was crushing her inside. She had blithely assumed Professor Snape was fine when he came in walking and talking the previous night. She should have done some sort of check or scan or...

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione's head snapped up.

"Y-yes, Professor?"

"I know it's not what you had in mind for your summer, but I believe you could be instrumental in helping fix this."

"Me?" Hermione gasped, not expecting this at all. She figured that Professor Dumbledore had been about to politely ask her to excuse herself from the room.

"Her?" Severus spluttered. "What can a schoolgirl, not more than a child really, do to help this sorry mess? Besides get in the way, of course!"

"Severus!" The sharpness in Albus' voice made even the stony Potions professor startle. "That is hardly fair, and you know it. Miss Granger is a valuable asset to this Order, and her work has been instrumental in making sure we still have a War to fight."

"Making sure we still have a Chosen One to fight it more like," Severus muttered under his breath, and Hermione was surprised to see Dumbledore crack a smile and snort before composing himself.

"In any event, Miss Granger continues to be important to what we're trying to do. I challenge even you, Severus, to manage to argue with that."

Dumbledore paused and stared at Severus, eyebrows raised. Severus maintained a sullen silence, meeting Dumbledore's gaze coolly for a minute before slumping back into the cushions of the couch behind him.

"That's settled, then. Now, Miss Granger, I understand if you want to continue to spend your summer with your family. Family is important-believe me, I know that. However, I would not ask you this if it wasn't of the utmost importance. We need Severus functioning. Would you be willing to spend time helping him find a way to counter this curse and making sure he stays alive long enough to do it? You wouldn't need to spend every waking hour with Severus, of course-I think the Order would be short two members instead of one before long if that were the case-"

He paused and winked at Hermione, who smiled a little in return.

"-but you would need to check on him every few hours, and spend additional time researching and experimenting."

"I don't need a bloody nursemaid, Albus," Severus grumbled, although the body-wracking shiver that punctuated the complaint really didn't do much to solidify his argument. He took another drag of his steaming mug of potion solution and fell silent again.

Hermione allowed herself one fleeting moment to mourn the long, lazy summer days with her family before she snapped back into Responsible Miss Granger mode.

"Of course I'll help, Professor Dumbledore."

"Thank you." Professor Dumbledore nodded, eyes shining. "Now, I do believe we've kept you from your parents long enough for now. Go spend some time at home. Can I expect you at Hogwarts at four?"

Hermione agreed and withdrew from the room, and Severus' shaking increased. It had always been hard for him to hide any pain behind his usual cool indifference with the Headmaster, so after all these years, he didn't even bother trying anymore. Showing weakness in front of the Granger girl, however, was a different story.

"I'm sorry."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry, Albus. I'm useless to you now. I ruined everything."

Severus told himself he needed to stop talking, but the words kept pouring out in a quiet, monotone voice that Dumbledore could barely make out over the crackling of the fire and the ticking of that damn clock.

"I couldn't kill her. The Dark Lord hadn't asked me to kill in so long that I just wasn't ready for it. I thought I had him believing me, that I found acts of physical violence distasteful and potions so much more dignified. I should have known better than to think he was fooled. I was his patsy, his mark, his prey that he coaxed into a trap, easy as snaring a stupid rabbit!"

"Severus, hush. You've given us years of intelligence, years. I can't even count how many lives you've saved. And if the thing that stops that is an act of mercy, an act of true humanity, then I have absolutely nothing to complain about. I won't hear another word about this.

"What we do need to discuss, however, is how to proceed from here. I truly believe that with Miss Granger's help, we will have you fighting fit as soon as we can. I don't know how long it'll take to find the solution, though, so you will have to exhibit some patience, as trying as that is for you."

Albus quirked a single eyebrow, and Severus chose to ignore the barb.

"But what about my classes? If I'm still like this come term time, I'm in no shape to teach. I can't even have that scrap of usefulness."

"I'll find someone to cover them. In all of this mess, that seems like the easiest part!"

"Albus, do you even remember how delicate the balance of a Potions class is? I have anywhere from 30 or more teenagers practically dripping hormones and self-centered angst, who don't give a rat's arse that they're sloshing around substances that could melt their face off, if they were lucky. And in the midst of making sure that nobody loses any body parts, I have to do my best to make sure they bloody learn something!"

"Of course, dear boy, of course. I'll take personal charge of your classes until I can drum up a decent substitute."

Severus groaned and rolled his eyes toward the cracked plaster ceiling. No matter how famous Albus was, he and potions did not mix. Severus would treasure the memory of an eyebrowless Albus the time that he tried to help Severus brew a batch of Veritaserum until the end of his days. Although he had a sneaking suspicion that this would end in tears, Severus didn't really have any other choice but to agree.

As unbelievable as she would have thought it to be just a few short days ago, it didn't take Hermione long to fall into a routine caring for Professor Snape. She was surprised to find that his company was not as trying as she suspected it might be. He was never what you could remotely call friendly, but he was mostly civil. She thanked her lucky stars that the curse didn't render him unable to bathe or attend to his bodily needs-she didn't know what she would have done if this were not the case.

She would wake up shortly before six, and as the sun rose, she'd Apparate reluctantly from her cozy childhood bedroom to Hogwarts. Professor Snape's potion had to come first, one drop of the fireflower essence stirred into in half a liter of a near-boiling carrying solution, a shot of the anti-tremor brew that Snape downed like it was Friday night at the bar, and yet another massive fry-up equal to the one she made that first fateful morning. This time, thankfully, she had house elves to do the frying. Although she had attempted to make peace with the elves and reassure them that the activisim of a misguided youth was no more, they still spent as little time around her as they could manage, but they kept Professor Snape stocked with all the food he could ever want.

She would then leave Snape bundled up in his enchanted duvet by a roaring fire, continuing on to the library, where she'd spend the morning buried in research, checking on Snape by Floo every hour and topping up his potion mug when needed. After five solid hours of poring over books and taking copious notes, leaving her ink-splattered and ready to tear her hair out, she'd return to Snape's sitting room to dive into the heaped platters of sandwiches, veritable buckets of soup, and other assorted lunchtime paraphernalia that the elves would pile onto the dark wood of his simple coffee table until she could almost hear it groan. The first day, it was all Snape could do to perform the basic function of chewing, but after he became somewhat accustomed to the ways that the curse's chills affected his muscles, he started initiating discussions. He was almost hungrier to find out what Hermione had been reading than he was for the food, and that was saying something. By the second day, Hermione started bringing him books she thought might be pertinent, and she picked up a Dicto-quill so that he could make legible notes despite his hand shaking.

She would then return home to spend the afternoon with her parents before returning to Hogwarts to have dinner with Snape. At first, over dinner, they would continue the talk from earlier in the day, about which ingredients interact with or nullify each other, each mentioning various obscure Potions theorists from centuries ago they had dug up in their respective dusty tomes. But as the days went on, Hermione felt more and more burnt out talking about warming Potions almost all day, every day.

The first time she haltingly mentioned some new article she read about increasing the longevity of anti-inflammatory solutions in the latest journal, he paused for a moment, observing her with two furrows pulling his eyebrows together over his nose.

"I'm- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I'll be off now. Goodnight, Professor."

"It's complete bollocks that they're relying on willow bark as a crutch given its reactivity after bottling."

Hermione paused, her hand inches away from the wrought iron Floo powder reservoir hanging from the black marble of the mantel. She turned, slowly, to see Snape settled back into the winged charcoal armchair, hands steepled, watching her with a challenge in his eyes. Did she have the guts to follow through with a talk with the big, bad "Bat of the Dungeons"?

"Well, actually, if you take into account that..."

And there was no stopping them after that. Once that top layer of ice broke, each evening, the unlikely pair would settle in for a lively discussion, sometimes about research, but equally as often about literature or culture. Snape had genuinely laughed, for the first time in Hermione's earshot, at her look of utter shock at his referencing having seen a Mel Brooks movie. A voice deep inside her head whispered to her that it was a pity he didn't have the chance to do it more often. The years dropped off of his face, and he looked a hell of a lot more human than anyone else took him to be.

On the tenth day after Lucius Rat-arsed Bloody Ponce Malfoy stuck him with that curse, Severus Snape found himself wrapped up in the most intriguing sort of guilt. Now, Severus was no stranger to guilt. Some form or another of the feeling had hung on him like an old coat throughout most of his life. And yet, this was an entirely new vintage to sample.

Frankly, Severus felt bad that he wasn't completely miserable for once.

Sure, he shivered nonstop, and he frequently had to look down and count to make sure his toes still made up their regiment of ten. First thing in the morning was the worst, after seven hours of no potions. He would wake up curled into a tight ball, his knees practically cemented to his chest, and he could feel the chills deep underneath his ribs. But when he mustered the strength to reach for the mug that he always found perched on his bedside table, handle facing him, he loosened up.

For the first time in nearly two decades, Severus no longer had to shield his mind from the Dark Lord's probing attacks, or to wrack his brains for ways to weasel out of Voldemort's latest atrocity, or to be the despised bearer of bad news at every Order meeting. Severus knew that he should be focusing on castigating himself for no longer being able to spy-he knew that he still had plenty of sins of his past for which he needed to atone, but despite himself, day by day, he found himself dwelling on this less and less. It became less of a throbbing baseline to his every action and more of a subtle undercurrent.

"Would you care for a drink, Miss Granger?"

The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. He had been thinking about how long it had been since he had sipped a good whisky all through dinner that night, and he intended to ask Miss Granger to pour him a single.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, I can't very well pour it myself, can I? And contrary to what Bat-Potter and Ginger Robin think, I'm not rude enough to ask you to fetch me a drink without offering to share."

Hermione bit her lip to keep from smiling and made her way over to the small sideboard that she assumed functioned as a bar. It was a tooled mahogany to match the coffee table and the arms of the armchair and small settee, carved with an intricate pattern of vines and curling ivy leaves. Who would have guessed that Professor Snape of all people would have such lovely furniture? She knelt down and traced the wooden stems for a moment, before pulling open the doors.

What happened next could only be described as a purely girlish squeal of delight.

"Miss Granger, are you quite alright?"

Hermione faked a few coughs, composing herself.

"You have, ahem, quite a collection, Professor." Hermione eyed the array of muggle single malt whisky as if she was greeting old friends. "I thought wizards drank Ogden's?"

"I'd rather brush my teeth with that swill."

"I haven't had Jura in ages..." she murmured, running a fingertip down the edge of the bottle.

"Pour it, then. Don't just sit there gawping."

Minutes later, they cradled heavy glass tumblers, Snape's safeguarded with a subtle anti-sloshing charm of course. Hermione held hers up to watch the firelight dance through the wheat-colored liquid.

"I must admit, Miss Granger, I never took you for a Scotch connoisseur."

Was that a note of respect Hermione detected in the Professor's voice? Would the wonders never cease?

"My dad taught me, more years ago than he probably should have. Our family has a tradition where every summer, we drive up to Scotland for a week to road trip and visit distilleries... Well, as many distilleries as my mum puts up with, that is. Heaven help the wine drinker who gets stuck with the whisky snob."

Snape chuckled.

"I first tried it when I was fresh out of Hogwarts, trying to impress Lucius and his ilk. It's easier than you think to pass off being the pauper in a crowd of rich brats as long as you know what you're doing."

Snape chuckled ruefully, and Hermione leaned forward, resting her glass on her knees. She didn't quite know what to say. She never expected Snape to open up even a little bit about his past, let alone to her.

"It's a miracle."

"What?"

"I've rendered the indubitable Miss Granger speechless. I never thought that the way to get you to stop raising that hand and asking questions was to put a whisky glass in it."

There was no sting in Snape's barb, and Hermione screwed up her courage to meet like for like.

"Naturally. I'm surprised you don't give booze to all of your students. Who knows, it might help even Neville settle down a bit!"

Snape groaned theatrically and placed the back of a long-fingered hand to his forehead.

"Let that boy touch a drop, and I might as well write the whole dungeons off into oblivion."

"He's very good at Herbology, though. He's not as useless as you make him out to be."

"You don't think I'm aware of that? I knew that from the start. I never really thought he was stupid at all."

"If you don't think he's stupid, why don't you give him a chance to learn without terrifying him."

"Because, Miss Granger, I have been trying for six years to get that boy to grow a spine. The minute he stands up to me in class is the minute I know that he won't turn into a snivelling lump at the other end of a Death Eater's wand. Which do you think he needs more in the real world: the capacity to brew a perfect swelling solution or the ability to stand up straight and fight when his life and others are on the line?"

Hermione was silent a moment, and tilted her glass back and forth, watching the liquor lap the walls and then settle.

"I suppose nobody really stopped to think that you might have had a good reason," Hermione said quietly.

"I suppose not," Snape answered, and they settled into a companionable silence and sipped.

With a mighty _whoosh_, any hope of further reflection vanished as the fire flared a brilliant green. A slight figure in Death Eater robes and mask tumbled onto the black hearth rug, and Hermione screamed. Out of instinct she chucked the nearest thing she had at his head, namely the whisky glass. The heavy crystal base collided with the Death Eater's head with a clunk, and he groaned softly.

Professor Snape grabbed his wand as fast as he was able and shakily rose to her feet. Hermione, hearing mocking echoes of Ron's "Are you a witch or not?" in her head, belatedly scrambled for hers as well.

The Death Eater raised a hand and slowly pulled his mask off, revealing a face Hermione had despised for the past six years. Professor Snape lowered his wand slightly, only by an inch or two.

"Draco!"

"You're alive!" the blond gasped.

"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Hermione watched her rival, his shoulders rising and falling with ragged breaths and his red-rimmed eyes darting to all corners of the room as if something might jump out at him at any minute. He calmed himself enough to speak.

"Please, Godfather, I need your help."


	3. Chapter 3

"Professor Dumbledore, sir?"

Dumbledore looked up from the handful of cashews Fawkes' beak greedily scarfed down to see Miss Granger's head looking rather flustered in his office fireplace. He tipped the rest of the nuts into the engraved golden bowl attached to the phoenix's perch, patted the bird's brilliantly orange head, and strode to the hearth.

"Miss Granger? How is Severus? Has he worsened?"

"No, no, he's fine. Well, not _fine _fine, but-"

Hermione was babbling, and she tried to compose herself.

"I think you had better come see for yourself, if that's alright, sir."

Dumbledore stepped through the fireplace without hesitation, only to encounter Draco Malfoy perched on the edge of a couch cushion. The younger Malfoy's arms wrapped tightly around his own torso, and he rocked forward and backward slightly.

"Mister Malfoy, I have to admit that it is an unexpected surprise to see you here."

"Professor Dumbledore, please... I... I need... I want... I saw... Please, Professor. I need help. I want to help!"

"Severus, is there any way of calming Mister Malfoy down with a potion?"

"What you see is what you get, Albus. I've already given him a calming draught. Anything stronger and he'll be too sedated to talk at all."

"In that case, Draco?"

The Headmaster conjured a plush purple ottoman and sat at eye level in front of the trembling teen. He locked eyes with Draco.

"Just focus on me, please. I'm wondering if it might not be easier to use Legillimancy to help you tell your story to me. Would you consent to allowing me into your mind to see what you're trying to tell me?"

Dumbledore's voice was gentle and even, the kind of tone used on spooked animals, and Draco looked pained for a moment before he took a deep breath and nodded. Hermione was shocked. This was not the aristocratic boy she knew. What had to happen to him to leave him this broken?

"_Legilimens._"

The two sat, grey eyes locked on blue, as Dumbledore methodically absorbed it all. Finally, a look of consternation ghosted across his brow, and he broke the connection. He rocked back, a gnarled hand reaching up to stroke his beard, and he seemed to take a minute to even catch his breath.

"Albus?" Severus barked.

Hermione rushed to the Headmaster's side, but he waved her away.

"I'm fine, children. I'm fine." He seemed like he was convincing himself as much as Hermione and Snape. "I just need a moment to compose myself, that's all. I saw... Well, I saw things that no human being should ever have to see. Severus, Lucius was with Avery and Macnair."

Professor Snape blanched. Hermione looked toward him, and he shook his head at her. Whenever Avery and Macnair teamed up, there was always blood, and lots of it. And screaming. When those two worked together, they could make innocent muggles scream in ways that didn't even sound human. With Lucius cheering them on, as they undoubtedly tried their very best to impress the Dark Lord's right hand man, Snape wouldn't be surprised if what was left of their victims didn't even look like people anymore.

"And there's more, I'm afraid. Mister Malfoy has been placed under a Fidelius charm for the last portion of the gathering. It must have been cast by Tom Riddle himself, as I can't seem to find a chink in it."

Professor Dumbledore turned to Draco.

"Mister Malfoy, I am so sorry this happened to you. Truly, I am. What you have witnessed this evening I would wish upon no one, even my worst enemy."

"I can't..." Draco murmured. "I can't do it. I need to make sure this doesn't happen again. My father..."

"I know," Dumbledore said softly, patting the distraught teenager on the hand. "You don't have to follow in his footsteps. You don't have to be who he wants you to be."

"But he's my father," Draco intoned, looking for all the world like he'd just spoken the most obvious fact, like he was trying to convince Dumbledore that gravity existed or the sky was blue.

"You can love your father without condoning what he does or who he is," Dumbledore Said. "You can love him as your father who raised you without loving who he is as a person now."

Draco made a slight keening sound from deep in the back of his throat, and a single tear slipped out of the corner of his eye.

"I want to help stop them. I want to work with you. I want to be the new spy."

"That's preposterous!" Snape blustered. "It's far too dangerous-you're not even an adult yet, for Merlin's sake!"

"He's no older than you were when you took the Mark, Severus, and you know it."

Snape's face flushed with outrage.

"He doesn't have the skills or the training to double cross the Dark Lord. He'd see through him in a heartbeat! Draco can't even Occlude."

"That's why you will train him, Severus."

"I will not have my godson's blood on my hands, Albus. I can't condemn him to a double life."

"Then train him well, Severus, and soon he may not have to. With his help, we have a chance of ending this nightmare."

The Headmaster turned back toward Draco, and it was clear that there would be no more debate.

"Could I have your attention please?"

The idle chatter in the room full of Order members retreated to a dull buzz.

"Excuse me!"

The assembled Witches and wizards fell silent. Harry and the Weasleys had just returned from their holiday, and everyone was eager to catch up. Ironically, Harry had gotten far more sunburnt than any of his red-headed adopted family members, and Ron and the twins ridiculed him immensely for it.

Remus smiled, shifting shyly under everyone's gaze as he finally succeeded in calling the sun-soaked group to order.

"I'll hand you over to Albus now, thanks. He has some news to share."

Professor Dumbledore slowly rose to his feet and took Remus' position at the head of the long pine table of Number 12's kitchen.

"I would like to update everyone about the details of what has happened to Severus. He will no longer be passing us information about Death Eater activities, I'm afraid."

"I knew it!" Harry stage-whispered. "I knew he'd turn eventually!"

Hermione saw the almost imperceptible flinch in Snape's features from where he sat, unnoticed with a heavy cloak drawn over his head, in a far corner. Dumbledore insisted he come, but under no circumstances could he insist that Snape socialize, especially in his condition. A Notice-Me-Not charm helped even the most vigilant of Order members not have cause to question the mysterious figure.

Ron rolled his eyes and elbowed his best friend in the ribs.

"Give it a rest, mate!" he hissed.

Dumbledore cast a stern glance at Harry, and he quieted, still scowling.

"Professor Snape has served us tirelessly, day in and day out, for years, and I will not hear him slandered. If I cannot depend on you to keep a level head in this meeting, Harry, I will have to ask you to leave."

Harry said nothing.

"Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

Harry slumped in his seat, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and Dumbledore continued.

"Good. However, at the last Death Eaters' gathering, due to an act of bravery and mercy and under no fault of Severus' own, Tom realized that Severus' true loyalties did not lie with the Dark cause. I would not presume to violate Severus' privacy by passing on too many details, but Severus is very much fighting for his life at the moment due to the lingering effects of a curse inflicted on him upon his reveal."

Hermione examined each of the faces around the table, and although a few of the assembled crowd, namely the older members, had some pity flicker across their features, no one looked hugely upset. She fought the tendrils of outrage that curled around her belly. She looked toward Snape, but he appeared impassive apart from a tightening of his jaw. Biting her tongue, Hermione took a deep breath, and then another. She would not resemble Harry with a rash outburst.

"However, this does not mean that we are completely surrendering our intelligence efforts. Draco Malfoy has agreed to be our new spy."

As if on cue, a pallid and shadowy-eyed Draco stepped through the doorway, and the room erupted in whispers. Dumbledore folded his hands and stepped back a moment. He knew the protests would be inevitable, and he hoped that if everyone got it out of their systems for a few minutes, they could be calmed and listen to reason. His expectations were not disappointed.

"You can't be serious!" Harry jumped to his feet, his chair clattering backwards behind him. "You can't expect us to trust Malfoy! That ferret will sell us all out as soon as he can!"

"Harry Potter, you will leave this room immediately!"

Dumbledore's bellow shocked everyone into open-mouthed stillness, and Harry stormed out without another word.

"Well, that went swimmingly," Draco muttered, staring fixedly at a copper frying pan hanging from a nail on the far wall of the kitchen.

"With all due respect, Albus," Arthur Weasley began, "how do we know we can trust him?"

"I have performed Legilimancy to verify as much of his story as possible. Some of what he has seen is bound by a secret keeper."

"Is there a way to circumvent that?" Minerva McGonagal cut in. "For all we know, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could have laid a trap for us in this boy's own head."

Dumbledore nodded.

"To tell you the truth, that thought had crossed my mind as well. However, although the details are protected by the Fidelius charm, under a dose of Veritaserum, I was able to ask more general questions, such as 'Have you lied to me? 'or 'Do you mean to harm me or any of my allies?' Even if he was ordered to try to deceive, there's no way to resist the potion, and Tom knows this-he wouldn't even try. I am pleased to announce that Mister Malfoy has passed my examinations enough that I am confident that he will be an asset to our cause."

Everyone sat for a moment, examining Draco carefully as they digested Dumbledore's words. Nobody seemed to quite know what to do next, and they glanced at each other, each hoping someone else would step in. Draco remained standing, shifting from foot to foot.

"This is ridiculous. All of you are treating this boy as if he's some sort of plague victim. You should be ashamed of yourselves! If this is the way we welcome people to our cause, there's no wonder that more wizards aren't turning tail and running for the Dark." Molly Weasley's voice took on the shrill tone that made even the oldest Order member feel like they sported red hair, freckles, and a hand-me-down robe. "Come here, young man. Take this seat. Are you hungry? You look like you haven't eaten in a month. Let me fix you a sandwich. How do you like your tea?"

For all that Draco seemed overwhelmed by Mrs. Weasley's sudden and vigorous mothering, he did as she asked, taking the empty chair she conjured next to her and answering her questions in a quiet but polite tone.

Dumbledore smiled, and he swept his hand toward the enchanted chopping boards that busied themselves preparing enough finger sandwiches for a small army.

"I think that's as good a cue as any. Let's pause and eat. I think we'll all function better on a full stomach."

Hermione felt her shoulders unknot and fall from their tense liaison with her earlobes. The stone on her necklace warmed against her collarbone with perfect timing. Professor Snape needed his next dose. She withdrew the small, heavily insulated vial from the pocket of her faded jeans, tipped a careful single drop into a mug of freshly boiled water, and passed it discretely to the hooded man in the corner.

"That was better than I expected, although given the fact that I thought they'd jinx him on sight and throw him out on his arse, that's not saying much. Nobody is going to lay a finger on one of Molly's little chicks, though."

Hermione nodded, glancing over to where Draco found himself staring down a stack of sandwiches larger than his head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar shaggy orange head approach, and she stepped away from Snape as quickly as she could.

"'Mione!"

"Ron!" Hermione found herself engulfed in lanky arms. "How are you? How was Cornwall?"

"It was brilliant! You should have gone. The cottage was amazing-it even had a swimming pool! What have you been up to while we were gone?"

"Oh, this and that..." Hermione stalled. She hadn't been expressly forbidden to talk about her Snape-watching duties, but somehow, it just didn't feel right to talk about it. "What's up with Harry? I thought a holiday was supposed to be relaxing, but he seems to be wigging out even more than usual."

She hooked her arm through Ron's, and they wandered toward the food as they talked.

Severus watched them retreat, drawing gulps of hot liquid over his tongue and feeling the fleeting comfort as each sip made its way down his throat. He glowered, trying not to think too hard about the prickle of annoyance jabbing at him. Under no circumstances would he dwell on the fact that Granger, his only source of company and intelligent conversation as of late, had the gall to remind him that she was only just another student by suckering herself like an octopus tentacle to Weasley. It did not bother him at all. He forced his focus back on Draco, watching to make sure that nothing untoward happened to the boy. He had important things to think about, like finding a way to send Draco into the gaping maws of hell with a chance of making it out again in one piece.

The meeting progressed eventually as the Order members stuffed their faces sufficiently enough and began briefing everyone on their recent assignments. Hagrid didn't have much good news to share about the giants, but then again, nobody really had high hopes for giant allies except Hagrid himself. The Aurors shared sobering stories of the wanton acts of violence Voldemort's followers perpetrated lately, and although talk of each victim chilled those listening to the core, all of the deceased remained muggle.

"I don't like this, Albus," Kingsley Shacklebolt intoned. "It's too quiet, too even. They haven't picked a Magical target in months, just more of the same. They're up to something, I feel it. I wish Mad-Eye was still here. He'd have sussed it by now."

The Order lost Alastor Moody to Bellatrix LeStrange's wand six months previously at a skirmish, but not before the grizzled veteran took five other Death Eaters, including the senior Crabbe patriarch, to meet their maker with him. In the meantime, the Auror Department at the Ministry promoted Shacklebolt to Deputy Head, and the strain was wearing on the tall, proud man. He rested his elbows on the table in front of him and dropped his forehead to the knuckles of his closed fists.

"Lately, we've been getting there too late. All we see is blood and bodies. I'm beginning to think that we're more of an over-decorated clean-up crew than anything else. We really need another man on the inside. No matter what anyone has to say about Severus, he was a good spy, and we're floundering without him."

"Not to mention that half our effort goes to keeping the muggle reporters chasing their tails," Tonks added. "They're like sharks smelling blood in the water."

"Vultures, more like," Kingsley agreed, and he looked straight at Draco. "Draco, you are very much needed. If you can find a way to help us save some of these lives, I will be forever in your debt."

He slowly and deliberately pushed his chair back from the table, stood up, and strode over to where Draco sat. He extended a callused hand to the Malfoy heir. Draco stared at Kingsley's hand for a long moment, and then brought his own slim pale one up to meet it.

"Mister Weasley, could I borrow you for a moment?"

Dumbledore approached where Ron was saying goodbye to Hermione and a sullen Harry, who Ron had retrieved when the meeting ended.

"Sure, Professor. How can I help?"

Ron followed the Headmaster out into the hallway where they could speak in private.

"I know that you and Mister Potter and Miss Granger have not had the most... amiable relationship with Mister Malfoy."

"Sorry, sir, but he started everything from the very beginning. Harry and Hermione and I just defend ourselves!"

Dumbledore raised his hand.

"What I'm asking you, although I appreciate that it will be difficult, is to put that behind you. I would like you to help me rehabilitate Mister Malfoy. He has been very deeply affected by what he has seen in his brief spell as a Death Eater so far, and he is suffering from something muggles often call post-traumatic stress disorder."

"With respect, sir, why me? I don't think I know anything about spying, and I doubt being around me would make him less stressed."

"From a logistical perspective, you are in the unique position of being in the Order without being a full-fledged adult member, so you are not old enough to take on the dangerous missions that the others are busy with. This is something you are more than capable of doing, just as you are. You are a young man, his age, and you've been through the horrors of war as well. I think you can be someone who he can identify with. Find some common ground."

Ron paused, mouth open, desperately combing his vocabulary to find some way to tell the Headmaster that he was completely barking mad and couldn't help Draco if it was the last thing he did-and the way Ron pictured it going in his mind, it very well might be.

"Excellent, that's settled then," Dumbledore said after a few beats of silence. "I'll let you know when to begin. Have a good evening."

"Professor Snape?"

Hermione didn't normally talk during breakfast, but something had been weighing on her mind all night.

"Yes?"

"How is Draco going to explain why he's missing from his parents' house while he's with us this summer?"

A corner of Snape's mouth rose a few millimeters.

"I was wondering when you'd ask that, Miss Granger. It took you longer than I expected."

Hermione bristled, but she stifled her retort.

"As far as the Order meeting last night and his rather abrupt arrival the night before, Draco assured us that his father would understand completely if his son was occupied in some of the more unspeakable corners of Knockturn Alley. It isn't all that uncommon with Death Eaters that blood lust leads to other urges of the physical sort, if you catch my meaning."

"Eurgh!" Hermione intoned without thinking.

"They're Death Eaters, not nuns, Miss Granger. You didn't think that they'd burst through their front door calling 'Honey, I'm home!' covered in the blood of the innocent, did you?"

"I'm not that naive! I'm just not used to thinking of things like that, alright?"

Hermione dropped her fork and clapped a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed. She couldn't believe she'd spoken to a teacher like that. She'd have detention until she was a pensioner!

Snape watched her for a moment, and shook his head.

"Get used to it, Miss Granger. Albus' grand idea to cover Draco's continued absence is declaring an intensive Quidditch training camp this summer at Hogwarts. Everyone on the House teams will be invited."

"But that's insane! That's over 50 people, counting all the substitutes."

"Obnoxious, yes. But not insane. Ingenious, more like. Lucius won't have a leg to stand on if he tries to stop the star of the Slytherin team from attending. Draco's absence would be immediately noticed."

Hermione nodded. It was rather brilliant, but...

"That means Harry and Ron will have to come too."

"Yes it does, Miss Granger."

"How am I going to explain what I'm doing in the castle to them?"

"You mean you haven't told your golden sidekicks about having to babysit your least favorite person in Hogwarts?"

"_Their_ least favorite, not mine," Hermione said before she could stop herself. She flushed and quickly continued. "I didn't think it was any of their business."

Snape rested his angular chin in the hollow between his thumb and forefinger.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Hermione could feel herself tearing up, and she cursed herself for being so silly. It was the first time Professor Snape had actually said those words to her throughout this whole ordeal. She blinked, blinked, blinked, and her vision stopped swimming, but the pinprick of warmth that those words inspired lingered.

She picked up the Daily Prophet that the house elf brought with breakfast and shook it open, looking mainly for a distraction.

"Let's see what entertaining fiction the hacks have drummed up for us today, shall we?"

She hadn't scanned more than a few words before she let out the vilest string of swear words that had ever dropped from her lips.

"What? What is it?"

Snape tried to jump to his feet and grab the paper, but his chilled and sluggish muscles protested. Wordlessly, Hermione handed the bundle of newsprint over.

"_MINISTER OF MAGIC DECLARES NEW EMERGENCY MUGGLEBORN SAFETY LAWS,_" the headline screamed.

"_Recent Ministry intelligence officials have uncovered a plot by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that poses an imminent threat to any and all muggleborn witches and wizards. For their own safety, Minister of Fudge has signed a series of emergency orders in order to keep these valuable members of our society out of harm's way. The Minister has established a curfew, decreeing that no muggleborn shall be outdoors past 8 in the evening, and any muggleborn child should not return to Hogwarts for the upcoming school term until this threat has passed. All muggleborns will be assigned to a member of the Aurory department who will check in on them regularly at their registered address to ensure their safety._

"_'I think it's a splendid idea,' said Secretary of Education Dolores Umbridge when asked for comment. 'Muggleborns are so valuable to us, especially when children are at stake. Children really are the future, and keeping them safe with their parents should be our number one priority until we can make sure they can be educated in a safe environment.'_

"_Rita Skeeter's coverage continues on page 3._"

Severus dropped the paper, hobbled to the fireplace as fast as he was able, and chucked in Floo powder.

"Albus!"


	4. Chapter 4

"Do you think the honey will have any effect on preserving the integrity of the phoenix feather if the potion boils? All of the Potions texts from the Alexandrian collection seem to swear by it as a stabilizer."

"If the temperature fluctuates the other way, it might crystallize. If we're planning on adding the ashwinder eggs, we have to chill the rest of the solution right down to nearly freezing until they're completely stirred in."

Hermione and her professor sat with heads bent over the coffee table. He was bundled up in his habitual armchair, but she had long since given up trying to dissect shared notes from the center of the sofa. As she became more and more engrossed in their discussions each time, she'd find herself inching closer until she perched on the tooled wood of the armrest of the settee, inches from his elbow.

A clearing of a throat behind them made them both jump, and their foreheads smacked together. Hermione sprung away from Snape and scuttled to the other side of the couch. She felt her cheeks warm with a blush, and she cringed. Way to play it cool, Hermione. Don't act like a clumsy teenager or anything!

"I didn't mean to startle you. I do apologize."

Dumbledore tried to stifle an amused snort. They really did look quite similar, both shooting him the same scowl as they rubbed above their eyebrows.

"You do know that the common social convention is to knock at the door, do you not, Albus?"

"Severus, Miss Granger, I have had the most splendid idea."

Hermione looked polite and intrigued, but Severus groaned. Last time Albus had had a "splendid idea," he had ended up with one of Mrs. Norris' kittens. That had lasted all of two days, until Albus subtly nipped to the dungeons and rescued the tiny grey fuzzball to deliver it to the care of Hagrid lest it end up on the wrong side of a cauldron rim.

"Miss Granger, has Severus told you about my plan to make sure Mister Malfoy is able to enjoy our company this summer?"

"Yes, sir, he has."

"I appreciate that the castle will become a bit more crowded tomorrow when they arrive." Dumbledore paused at Hermione's wide-eyed look of alarm. "Severus, did you forget to mention this?"

Snape busied himself with finishing the last few sips from his mug.

"At any rate, I know that the influx of students will not do much good for your peace of mind, my boy.

"And Miss Granger, I know that the arrival of your friends won't be a wholly unwelcome imposition, but it will make it more difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. I've been very proud of the way you've been keeping Severus as hale and hearty as circumstances allow and of how diligently you've been working to find out a way to undo the curse. I know that the Ministry's meddling hasn't helped either, and I promise you that I am still working on a way to circumvent them.

"However, I think the two of you deserve a chance to relax, if only for a day. Put down your books and follow me. I have a surprise for you."

"But sir, we were making headway-"

"Albus, if you think I'm just going to-"

Dumbledore waved away their arguments, and Snape surrendered. It was best to let the Headmaster have his fun and get it over with. Hermione followed behind Snape, making sure to pocket the fireflower vial and a shrunken flask of hot water.

Professor Dumbledore led them out of the castle and into the gardens like some sort of twinkling Pied Piper of Sherbet Lemon-lin. They meandered their way through the walled gardens familiar to Hermione, and she gazed around in wonder as she walked. This was the first time she had ever gotten the chance to see Hogwarts' gardens in high summer, and she couldn't believe that even magic could produce such a bounty of colors. Finally, the trio stopped in the corner of a small cluster of apple trees, whose tiny, unripe fruits waved gently in the light breeze. Hermione caught her breath and wiped the beads of sweat off of her brow. It had to be pushing 30 degrees, and the sun was glaring down from a cloudless sky. She looked to Professor Snape, whose constant shivers had eased somewhat, although there was still no color in his cheeks.

Dumbledore approached the mottled red and black brick of the high garden wall and knelt carefully. He pushed clumps of grass aside one by one, examining each of the bricks along the bottom of the wall in turn.

"Aha! There's the bugger."

Dumbledore retrieved his wand from the sleeve of his cerulean robe and placed it against a brick with what looked like a daisy crudely scratched on it.

"Hortum sanctuarium," he intoned.

The wall shimmered for a moment, and when Hermione blinked her vision clear, she saw a door emerge, rough and grey unpainted wood and a heavy iron latch.

"This is the Headmaster's Garden, but I'd like to invite the two of you to use it whenever you feel like you need a moment to breathe and think. No matter how much you love your dungeons, Severus, fresh air will do you good-not to mention the fact that sitting in the sun will, I believe, be therapeutic to your condition. The entry brick likes to wander around sometimes, but you'll usually find it somewhere along this wall if you have a little patience and search for it.

"Each Headmaster since Hogwarts' founding has put their own little touches on this garden, and some were a little more, shall we say, inventive than others. This is one of the safest places in the whole of the grounds, and it has a charm imbued in it that tells me immediately if someone's in danger within it, but I would advise that you keep on your toes. Every once in a while, it shows a few of its little quirks.

"Now, I need to go and prepare for tomorrow's arrivals, but don't be shy. Go in and enjoy my surprise!"

Dumbledore patted Severus on the shoulder, smiled at Hermione, and strode away, whistling.

Hermione eased the catch of the latch up and pushed the weathered door inward. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Professor, you have to see this! It's wonderful!"

Snape stepped through, and even he stopped to gape.

"I have to admit, it is rather impressive."

Immediately in front of them lay an intricate Victorian formal garden, with beds of hundreds of bobbing petunias weaving amongst each other in a knotwork pattern, brightly colored with a riot of oranges, reds, and pinks intertwined with lines of deep blues and velvety purples. A path of cream-colored stones bisected the elaborate design, and Hermione set off along it, with Snape behind her. What appeared to be a hedge blocking their view further into the garden turned out to be two, set overlapping each other so that there was a gap through which the path snaked in an "S" shape.

On the far side of the hedge, a small lake lay nestled within a copse of willows interspersed with the most prolific hydrangea bushes Hermione had ever seen, bearing huge puffs of blue, violet, and hot pink blossoms. Hermione cooed with delight as she watched moorhens shuttle their fuzzy chicks back and forth on the surface of the lake. The path continued onto a narrow grey stone bridge to the middle of the lake where a small island rose from the softly lapping water. Although most of the lake was dappled by the shadows of the drooping willow branches, the little patch of land in the middle rose high enough for the sun to bathe it in unbroken light.

It was what the little circle of land bore that really excited Severus. On the flat summit of the small hill, a huge, plush, quilted white blanket lay stretched out. A massive picnic hamper weighted down each corner, and Snape and Hermione both knelt and opened each, one by one.

"Scones and clotted cream! Strawberries!" Hermione squealed. "What's in that one, Professor?"

"It would appear to be two whole roasted chickens... And enough bread to feed a giant. And whatever this is."

Severus handed a jar to Hermione, who opened it with her steadier hands and sniffed.

"Lemon and garlic mayonnaise! And fresh mint. Mmmm, my favorite. Maybe some Parmesan in there as well."

"You might have the nose of a Potions Mistress yet, Miss Granger."

Snape noticed a rolled up scroll of parchment in the center of the blanket, and he eased himself down. Hermione lent him her arm, and he reluctantly took hold of it for just enough time as absolutely necessary to steady himself. He unrolled the parchment and read for a moment.

"What the...?"

"What is it, Professor?"

"The bloody bridge is gone."

Snape passed Hermione the note, and she scanned it as its edges flapped in the breeze.

"_Dear Severus and Hermione,_

_Please enjoy this picnic feast. I do believe the house elves outdid themselves once again._

_The bridge to the island will reappear the moment the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Sorry, Severus, but this is the only way I could guarantee you would soak up a little solar radiation. I think it will do your condition some good._

_Bon appetite!_

_-AD_

_PS: I wouldn't think about trying to swim, if I were you."_

"Shall we get stuck in then?" Hermione asked, a little too brightly, slightly afraid of Professor Snape's reaction to Dumbledore's sneaky tactics.

"Let it be said that the highly esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin First Class and champion of all that is righteous and good, is not above fighting dirty. Pass the mayonnaise."

And with that, Hermione and Snape began munching their way through the panoply of goodies stretched before them.

"Would you like some crisps, Professor?" Hermione asked shyly, holding out the bag.

"For Merlin's sake, girl," he said, reaching his hand into the crinkly packaging, "you're legally an adult-don't think for a second the faculty didn't know exactly how many hours you piled on with that Time Turner-and you've been waiting on me hand and foot for the past two weeks. You can at least call me Severus. Although try it in my classes and I'll have your innards for my ingredients storeroom."

"Thank you, S... Severus." Hermione rolled the name around her mouth, experimenting, and came to the conclusion that it felt right. "You can call me Hermione too, if you want. And I wouldn't worry about me being in your class again this year, with what my Ministry letter said. The one time I had hoped that the papers were exaggerating... But no, I'm 'forbidden from matriculating for' my 'final year of studies at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry pending further Ministry investigation and clearance for my own safety.'"

"That's the biggest load of bollocks I've ever heard. If anyone can find a way around it, it'll be Albus. Although I wouldn't be surprised if there's a bigger reason than just Ministry officials covering their collective arses involved."

"Really? You think so? The thought had crossed my mind... But then I assumed I was being too reactionary."

"As much of an idiot as Fudge is, anyone who's made it all the way to Minister of Magic knows better than to throw down measures this draconian all at once. A savvy politician boils the water just slowly enough that the frog in the pot doesn't even notice."

"Do you think it's You-Know-Who?"

"I'm not going to say anything conclusive until I have more information."

They finished their chicken sandwiches and crisps is companionable silence, and then Hermione decided to break out the scones.

"Would you like me to prepare some for you, Pro-Severus?"

"Please."

Hermione took a deep breath for courage and decided to throw caution to the wind and speak her mind.

"I didn't think you'd like something as sweet as scones and clotted cream."

"If you want to be especially muggle about it, you could say that rich food is my kryptonite. I've always had a sweet tooth since I was a child, and good food and good whisky were some of the few indulgences I could allow myself during my years of service to Albus."

"My parents rarely let me have things like this growing up. They're both dentists. They said it would rot my teeth."

"So naturally, you hoarded anything with sugar the second their backs were turned."

"Exactly!" Hermione laughed. "How did you know?"

"I have learned a few things about children in my years of being a teacher, you know."

"Besides how to terrorize anyone seventeen or under at will?"

"Touche, Hermione. Touche."

Severus raised his glass of pumpkin juice in a mock toast.

"Severus! Look at your hand!"

They both looked at Severus' tapered, potion-stained fingers where they wrapped around the tumbler.

"I didn't put a charm on your drink or anything, and you're not spilling it! You're still shaking a bit, but not nearly as bad as you were inside. This is amazing! The sun must really be helping."

"Damn."

"What? I thought you'd be happy about getting better."

"Oh, I am. But you should see how insufferable Albus gets when he's right."

A wave of giggles escaped Hermione, and she put her hand up over her mouth to try and stifle them. A low, velvety rumble escaped Severus' throat, and Hermione looked at him like he had grown a second nose. Severus Snape had actually laughed, a throaty chuckle with no hint of bite or sarcasm. She wiped the incredulity off of her face before Severus could clock it.

He looked quite handsome when he laughed, her mind whispered to her as she watched the furrows in his forehead lighten.

Where had that come from? Hermione busied herself with slicing the strawberries and spreading the cream over the rich, crumbly scones. In any event, that was a perfectly reasonable thought. Severus was a good person who had been through a lot, and he deserved to be happy. People looked nicer when they weren't miserable, after all. She was pleased that he was feeling better physically and mentally, that was all.

A few minutes passed, with both of them chewing and watching the birds. Even Severus cracked a tiny smile as a duckling stumbled onto the island's shore and shook his tiny, stubby wings. He swore to himself that he was going soft in the head.

Hermione finished the last bite and put aside her plate. She dabbed the crumbs and strawberry juice off of her lips and settled, lying down, on the plush blanket. She studied the sky carefully, looking thoughtful.

"What are you doing?"

Hermione blushed and scrambled to prop herself up on her elbows.

"Nothing. It's silly. Just a little game I used to play when I was little."

"What game?"

"You'll laugh."

"I won't."

"I was playing cloud pictures."

"Cloud pictures?"

"It must be a muggle thing... Every time I go on picnic, I always play cloud pictures after I'm stuffed full of food. Harry and Ron are rubbish at it. All they see are stupid Quidditch balls and broomsticks."

"How do you play?"

Before long, and with less cajoling than Severus would ever later admit to, he found himself flat on his back and staring up at the puffy white objects dotting the sky.

"Here, I'll give you an easy one." Hermione pointed to a rounded cumulus cloud to their slight left. "What's that?"

"That's a cauldron. There's the ladle about to stir it off to its side."

"You're as bad as the boys were! Try and have a little imagination. See, that one's a crab on its back. See the pinchers coming up from its belly?"

"If you say so..." Severus shook his head. "There. That one above that dodgy crustacean. I dare you to tell me that's not Flitwick doing a jumping jack."

Hermione sniggered.

"You're horrible!"

"Tell me I'm wrong." 

When the sun dipped its toe under the treeline a few hours later and the stone bridge re-materialized, both Severus and Hermione couldn't help feeling a pang of disappointment.

A few days later, Hermione could barely remember the tranquility of the garden. She felt the galleon heat up against her thigh, and she removed it from its denim pocket to squint at the writing around the rim.

_11, sorry couldn't give more warning, Kingsley_

Hermione dove to the library fireplace and Flooed to Snape's chamber.

"Shit, shit, shit. Severus, I have to go. I need to get home in ten minutes. Will you be alright until I get back? I'll probably be fifteen minutes, tops. You're due for another potion, but I don't have time to-"

"Go. I may be an invalid, but I'm not an infant!"

Hermione winced, mouthed another "Sorry!" and rushed to the fireplace. She felt stretched to the end of her rope. How was she supposed to gain any ground on how to break this stupid curse if the Ministry kept her running home to put on her good girl face until she felt like a headless chicken?

Plus, she had Harry and Ron to deal with now as well. Severus had given her his permission to share the bare minimum of information about what she was doing at Hogwarts as well, and they accepted her explanation with the same attitude as they would have if she said she was stricken with a dread disease. She was just one more doleful look away from losing her temper and blistering their ears with an explanation that would leave them quaking in their trainers. At least their Quidditch practice kept them too busy to go anywhere near the library.

When the emerald flames stopped spinning, she crouched enough to slither out of her parents' sitting room's wrought-iron and enamel-tiled coal fireplace. What she wouldn't give to transplant one of Hogwarts' huge stone ones to her parents' Victorian semi-detached, but that was the price to pay when one grew up in the mining country of the East Midlands. In her hurry, she jammed the bony knob at the top of her shoulder joint on the sharp top edge of the opening. That would add a fresh new hue to the palette of purples, blues, yellows, and bizarrely, bright greens that decorated the top of her body, she thought with a wince.

She glanced at the clock on the wall-10:57. Three minutes to freshen up. She artfully arranged the sitting room, placing a half-empty cup of tea next to a tented paperback novel on the glass coffee table and plopping herself down a few times to make the sofa's throw pillows suitably smooshed. Looking down at her appearance, she sighed. The scruffy old set of school robes she wore were decked out in fresh powdery stains from the morning's experiment. She shed the garment and balled it up to stuff it behind her father's recliner. She smoothed her hair and re-secured it, twisting it and stabbing her wand through to hold the messy bun in place. As if on cue, the doorbell sounded.

"Ms. Petrichor!" Hermione oozed. "How nice to see you again. My, the Ministry is certainly keeping you on your toes, aren't they? Won't you come in? Cup of tea?"

Mariana Petrichor was a prim witch in her late fifties with thin grey hair scraped back in a small bun at the nape of her neck and very small glasses. She had a reputation around the Auror department for being starchier than a boiled potato. When one of Fudge's undersecretaries posted the list of assignments for the new muggleborn duties, there were no surprised faces when "Petrified" was picked for the most difficult and potentially rebellious cases.

"Miss Granger, how do you do. The Ministry takes its duties toward your safety very seriously, as you well know. A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

She stepped her sensible brown shoes primly across the Grangers' threshold, and Hermione allowed herself a mental groan. She seemed to have a 50/50 success rate with being chipper enough that Mme. Petrichor ended up satisfied enough with her front door greeting that she left Hermione alone. It figured that the Auror would come in when Snape was behind on his medication.

Ms. Petrichor settled on an antique high-backed wooden chair to the left of the sofa, and Hermione placed a steaming cup and saucer in her outstretched hands.

"What an... interesting choice of reading material you have there, Miss Granger."

Hermione blanched. In her rush to set the stage, she had managed to grab a tome off of her mother's "special shelf," and she took in the long-haired hunk's sultry gaze at the busty woman draped in his beefy arms. Oh well, she was in just the mood to scandalize the old bat.

"Everyone has to have a hobby!"

"Indeed."

Ms. Petrichor sipped her tea.

"Now, Miss Granger, in the interests of your continued well-being, has there been any suspicious activity in this vicinity to report? Have you seen any unexplained magical phenomena, or heard anyone Apparate lately?"

"None at all. It's been all quiet on the Granger front in the two days since last time you asked me!" Hermione pasted a cheery grin on her face and started to rise to her feet. "Now, I'm sure you're very busy with all sorts of important Ministry business, and I have an urgent appointment with Fabio here, so I won't keep you. Have a lovely day!"

"If I could spare just another moment of your _valuable _time," Ms. Petrichor began, and Hermione's diaphragm plummeted. "As you know, one of the terms of the Minister's protection plan is aimed toward students of Hogwarts. Our findings pinpoint Hogwarts as a huge potential target, and as such we would like to ensure your cooperation in our efforts to avoid causing harm to yourself and your classmates. I have here a contract stating that you understand and agree to the terms of this emergency Ministerial order and will delay your attendance this September, not stepping a foot on the Hogwarts grounds as a student until the Ministry has deemed the threat managed. I'll just leave this here for you to have a flip through, and I'll be happy to collect it, signed, the next time I see you."

Ms. Petrichor withdrew a tied scroll of parchment from the pocket of her sensible charcoal business robes, placed it in front of Fabio's pectorals, and placed her teacup on the side table. She nodded at Hermione as she strode toward the door.

"No need to get up. I'll see myself out. And you have a _lovely _day as well, Miss Granger."

Hermione glared at the unrolled contract with vision edged in red. She stuffed it into her canvas tote and stalked out of the front door, stomping her way to the convenience store on the corner.

Over the twelve years that the Grangers had lived on his street, Rahman Khan, the shop's proprietor, had come to know their daughter by her purchases. If she plucked up some fruit, usually a punnet of bright summer strawberries from the produce displays outside as she breezed into the store, that called for an effusive greeting and a few minutes of chat if he wasn't too busy. He asked how she was, how the previous term had treated her, and she gave him a (heavily edited) update about her studies at her fancy Scottish boarding school. She asked about his family back in Pakistan, and he loved showing her the latest snapshots of his gaggle of nieces and nephews on his mobile phone. However, if she went straight for the extensive display of chocolate at the back of the store, he knew to nod sympathetically, take her money without any small talk, and wave her out the door with nothing but a quiet "Thank you," and perhaps a "Good luck!"

An expression of utter shock graced his wrinkled brown features as he looked up from his Urdu newspaper at the sound of not one, but three, giant 360g Cadbury Dairy Milk bars plunked down on his counter.

"Bad day?"

"You don't even know the half of it, Mr. Khan."

Rahman watched Hermione pay and leave with fire in her eyes. He picked up his newspaper and shook his head. Only Allah could help whoever ticked her off this time.

"Malfoy."

"Weasley."

Ron stood just inside the doorway of the Room of Requirement, observing Draco cautiously. A comfortable, oak-paneled room sported two comfortable-looking armchairs, one a dusky silver and the other a soft gold, by a small chess table. Malfoy unsurprisingly occupied the silver. He didn't look as frail as he had at the Order meeting, where he seemed like he'd fall over if someone breathed too hard on him. Ron wasn't sure how much of the color in the blond boy's cheeks was natural or potion-made, but his eyes looked a little less sunken, and he sat a bit straighter in the squashy chintz chair.

"Has Professor Dumbledore told you why I'm here?"

"He has," Draco answered coolly. "He mentioned to me that you were halfway decent at wizard's chess. As I'm forced to spend some time with you, care to prove it?"

"Halfway decent?" Ron spluttered. "I'm the best in Gryffindor!"

"And I'm the best in Slytherin."

Ron rolled his eyes, but he took his seat. Immediately, the regiments of white marble soldiers and royalty on his side turned to him and bowed.

The boys played in silence for a few moments, feeling each other out. Draco moved his pawns to set Ron up for an en passant capture.

"What, you didn't expect me to know that? You gave me that one!"

"I had to find out if I needed to go easy on you."

Draco smirked at Ron above the board, but he had a hard time mustering up his customary arrogance. He dropped his eyes back to his pieces but sat still for a moment, hands in his lap.

"I suppose this is what you always wanted," Draco said in a voice so soft Ron had to lean in closer to hear.

"What?"

Draco chuckled ruefully.

"You hate me, and you get to see me like this. I don't blame you for enjoying it. Hell, I would have if I was in your place."

"I don't enjoy it. Look, Malfoy, I don't like you. I haven't liked you one little bit since I met you. But I don't hate you. Maybe I did back when we were kids, but now I know what real hate is. It might be selfish of me, but you're not worth having that festering inside me.

"That said, I know you've seen some shite, stuff that nobody should see, even a bully like you. I told Dumbledore that I'd try and help you get past it, and that's what I'll do. I don't have to like you to admit that you're a human being and be human to you in return."

Draco said nothing for the next three or four moves. He tried to keep his nose wrinkled in an expression of contempt, but eventually, his face softened. It was just plain _hard _to keep up the act anymore. And why even try? Who had he learned it from but his father, the man he had seen cheer on murder with savage glee.

"So, Weasley... Do you like any Quidditch teams?"

AN: Thank you for reading, and thank you to the people who have left me lovely reviews and put this story on their notifications list. They truly make my day. My poor husband has to put up with me squealing and waving my iPad in front of him to show him (he doesn't "get" fanfiction, alas). To my readers, I apologize if the little dividers I've put in between scenes in each chapter aren't showing up... There should be a little row of asterisks when the scenes change. Please bear with me as I find a way to fix this!


	5. Chapter 5

"I can't. I just can't."

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger. It's the only way."

Hermione stared, eyes glassy and unseeing. Her breath came in short pants.

"They can't take this away from me. They just can't."

"Miss Granger, they would have stopped you from attending regardless. This at least guarantees you a chance to be here at the castle, where I'm sure I don't need to tell you that you are very much needed. Furthermore, Severus will formally hire you as his research assistant, which is unprecedented and prestigious enough that it should leave you in good standing if you wish to pursue further education or apprenticeships in the future. It is well within my power to offer you a chance to sit your NEWTS after the war is over, as well."

Hot, angry tears tracked their way down over Hermione's clenched jaw, and before she could stop herself, she whispered, "But it's not fair."

"I'm sorry?" Severus intoned in a dangerously calm voice. "What did you say?"

"N-nothing. I didn't say anything."

"That's funny, because I could have sworn I heard you say that it's not fair. And why not? After all, it isn't fair. It wasn't fair when the Lestranges tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom until they lost their minds. It wasn't fair when any of the Order members lost their lives at the business end of a Death Eater's wand." Severus' voice became louder and louder. "It wasn't fair when Draco had to watch his father celebrate as Macnair flayed human beings alive.

"And, oh yes, it isn't fair when the Ministry of Magic takes away your right to swan around in classes that you and I both know you don't need and play schoolgirl with your little friends as the rest of the adults have a goddamned war to fight!"

Even Dumbledore looked dumbfounded by Snape's tirade. Without another word, Hermione stood, walked to the edge of the Headmaster's desk, signed the official withdrawal form, and walked out of the room.

It was only when she had reached the very bottom of the spiral staircase that she allowed herself to duck into a vacant classroom and sob.

"Well, you handled that well," Dumbledore said as he got up from his desk and walked over to Fawkes, turning his back to Severus.

"All I said was the truth."

"And I'm sure that's the best possible way you could have couched it."

"She was becoming hysterical. I had to make sure she remained focused. Giving up a final year of schooling, especially for someone who can all but teach the classes herself for the most part, seems like such an infinitesimal sacrifice compared to what others have given for the war."

"This isn't a pain contest, Severus! You aren't winning the Martyr of the Year award!"

Dumbledore wheeled around and stalked faster than Severus had seen him move in a while. The Headmaster towered above where Severus sat, and the air around his head crackled. The old man spoke quietly, but his words seemed to echo around Severus' head.

"Everyone's personal tragedy is important. Everyone who has given something up, set something aside, lost something to defend what is good in our world deserves respect and empathy. If it weren't for you, Hermione Granger could have stayed home, perhaps doing something else useful like research for the Order as she waited out the Ministry's ban. I could have found a use for a mind like hers in a heartbeat no matter where she had to be squirreled away. But she is giving up what she thought was the most important goal on her horizon, not to mention time with her family and friends, because of you. Think on that."

"She's just doing all this because of a Gryffindor loyalty toward you. She doesn't give a damn about me," Severus couldn't resist spitting out.

"Do you really believe that, Severus?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrow and held Snape's eyes for a long minute, before turning his back and walking away again. "I trust you can manage the Floo on your own."

Severus rose shakily and departed, and Dumbledore paused for a few minutes before exiting his office and descending down the staircase himself. If he had timed it just right, she should be...

Ah, there she was. His suspicions were correct. He spotted Hermione in the old Muggle Studies room, just finishing up a good, solid cry. Dumbledore allowed her enough time to blow what seemed like half of the contents of the Hogwarts lake into a tissue before he cleared his throat. She jumped and quickly started attempting to mop up her wet face.

"No need for that, my dear. We all need to grieve from time to time."

"I'm sorry for causing a scene, Professor Dumbledore."

"I won't hear any apologies. The fault lies roundly in Severus' corner, and I think I've managed to get that fact through his skull one way or another."

Hermione cringed. Great, now she was to blame for Severus getting a telling-off from his boss. Because _that _would make him oh-so-pleased to see her again come potion time.

"I think it would be a good idea," Dumbledore continued, "if you took some time away from Hogwarts. First of all, I think it would be good for your peace of mind. Spend some time with your family. Come to terms with what you've had to do tonight.

"In addition, though, what we've done with your situation is highly irregular. It will turn heads and spark whispers. Although your formal hiring won't happen until your return, if that is amenable to you, your withdrawal paperwork is magically connected to documents held by the school's governors and the Department of Education at the Ministry. It will be short work for Tom Riddle's spies in the Ministry to get hold of the information, not to mention the press. I know you've had run-ins with the likes of Rita Skeeter before, but prepare yourself. She and others will not hold back. I would advise you to cancel your subscription to the Daily Prophet if you have one."

"But sir, what about Sev- Professor Snape?"

"This week, I will take over the duties of caring for him."

"Won't you be too busy, though?"

"I'll manage, Miss Granger. Please just focus on gearing up to be strong. Unfortunately, you have a rocky path ahead of you. Before you go, I'd suggest finding Harry and Ronald. I fear that they may not take it well, but trust me that it will be better coming from you in person than from whatever twisted nonsense those rags will be carrying tomorrow."

Hermione set her jaw and straightened her spine, looking the Headmaster in the eye.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. I won't let you down, I promise."

* * *

"Hi Harry, Ron," Hermione ventured quietly as she stepped into the Room of Requirement. Draco and Ron's armchairs and the chess table had long since gone, replaced with squashy cushions arranged on a shaggy burgundy hearth rug in front of a comfortably crackling fire. This deep in the stone castle, summer or no summer, the low flames that licked the iron grate were comforting.

"Long time no see, 'Mione," Harry said, and he flashed her a small grin as she eased herself down on one of the cushiony poufs. "We were beginning to the dungeons had eaten you! You said you'd come with us to Hogsmede yesterday morning before practice, remember?"

"I know, I know..." Hermione moaned, trying to look penitent. Harry actually seemed cheerful for once, and a stab in Hermione's gut reminded her that what she would have to tell them might destroy any fragile progress he'd made back toward normalcy. The upheaval of yesterday morning had pushed her date with the boys completely out of her mind. "I've had a lot to deal with lately. I'll still make time to spend time with you guys soon, I promise. How's practice been going?"

"Lookie there, Harry," Ron teased. "That's a Hermione that's keen to get back into our good graces for sure! Talking about Quidditch and everything? I think that certainly deserves some forgiveness, don't you think?"

"Indeed, indeed... And as we are currently in a position to grind the Slytherins into the dust of the pitch this year, I'm inclined to be generous."

Hermione shoved Harry's shoulder playfully, pushing him back into the pile of cushions, and the trio collapsed into laughter. As they wiped their eyes and caught their breath, they slipped easily back into the comfortable chit-chat of long-time friends, talking about this, that, and everything. Hermione savored every minute, every inside joke and reference to good times in their past. All too soon, though, the conversation lulled, and Ron ventured into the subject she'd been dreading.

"What are you going to do about that new law? Did Dumbledore sort it out for you? I bet he went to the Ministry and showed them who's really boss. I bet he had them begging to let you come back to classes!"

"Well... Not quite."

"Not quite? What do you mean? It's Dumbledore!"

"He's not perfect, Ron. He can't do everything," Harry muttered, the amount of bite in his voice surprising even him. "So what are you going to do, 'Mione? Some sort of distance learning thing at home until this nonsense goes away?"

"I still have to help Professor Snape, Harry. You know this. I have to be able to come into the castle for that. You know he's not in any shape to leave Hogwarts right now. He'd be a sitting duck. Professor Dumbledore has the Death Eaters thinking he's deathly ill, anyway."

"So what are you going to do, then? Is there some sort of loophole in the contract?"

Hermione hesitated and drew in a slow breath. She knew she was procrastinating, but she wanted to hang on to that easy rapport for a few more seconds before she had to shatter it.

"Well, first of all, the Headmaster has cleared me to go away for a week. I saw how much good that break away did for you guys, and I've decided that I need a week with my family to get my mind focused and sharp again. I've gotten so bogged down in my research that I feel like I'm just scribbling notes from other people's work down on autopilot and not actually digesting any of it. I've talked to my parents, and they've booked us for a last-minute trip to Iceland, so that should be remote enough that I can get away from it all for a bit and clear my head. Plus, have you seen the geology in Iceland? It should be fascinating!"

Hermione tried to couch it in terms of being a fantastic and refreshing vacation and not what it actually was: hiding. She still felt cowardly for it, but it was Dumbledore-approved cowardice, so there was that.

"That's fantastic, 'Mione!" Ron interjected, knowing that if he didn't cut in now, Hermione would bore them to tears about geysers and fault lines for the next hour. "If anyone deserves that, it's you. You've been in that library so much this past week I'm surprised you don't have a bed in there!

"Plus," the redhead continued, a dreamy look drifting over his face, "have you heard how good the food's meant to be there? I've heard that the hotdogs are legendary! And barbecued reindeer, and..." Ron's voice trailed off as he dreamed of the fatty and greasy culinary delights up near the Arctic Circle.

"That's great, Hermione, it really is," Harry said, and Hermione's stomach twisted. She knew he wasn't as easy to derail as Ron was. "But what are you going to do when you get back?"

"There's only one thing that I can do. I've signed papers declaring that I've officially withdrawn as a Hogwarts student."

Silence blanketed the room until you could have heard a billiwig sneeze. The deafening quiet lasted all of about thirty seconds while the boys sat in shock.

"No!" Harry exploded. "You can't! You just can't do that! They'll find someone else to take care of Snape. Don't you dare sign that paper!"

"Didn't you hear me, Harry? I've already signed." Hermione bit her lip to stop the urge to nag at Harry to use Severus's title. Never had it been less of the time or place for that. "Professor Dumbledore did say that he'd authorize me to sit NEWTS when everything's over and the world settles back down again."

"I get it..." Ron said, realization dawning in his eyes. "That's brilliant!"

"What?" Hermione asked as she quirked her head. This was not the reaction she expected at all.

"It's the perfect plan! You can still go to classes like normal and stuff and act like a student, but on paper you've withdrawn. I knew you guys would find a way around everything. That's our 'Mione!"

He patted Hermione on the shoulder, and she fought the urge to cry.

"No, Ron. Professor Snape is officially hiring me as his research assistant. I need to devote my full attention to helping him get well and assisting him with his research into potions that can help the war effort."

"So you lied, then." Harry stood up and stalked to the corner of the room, hands thrust deep in his robe pockets.

"I'm sorry?"

"You lied about having time to spend with us."

"Come on, Harry, please don't be like this." Hermione stood and walked to Harry, placing her hands on his shoulders and turning him to face her. "You're my best friends. Of course I'll make time for you. But this is important to the war. Professor Dumbledore thinks that I can help-"

"Why don't you help me then?" Harry spat, and Hermione took a step back like she'd been slapped. "Why don't you help me? I'm the one who's going to have to face him in the end, not Snape! Ever since this whole Snape thing started, you've been glued to him, and I'm sick of it. You've canceled even the simplest of plans. Today is the first time in weeks that you've even said more than ten words to us in a row. Did you think that I was just twiddling my thumbs until it's time for the big final showdown? I have no bloody clue what I'm doing in this war, and for everything that's said about your big fucking brain, you're too stupid to see that I'm the one who needs you! Fine then. Run to Snape. Just don't expect to try and bounce back and forth between both of us. I'm done with you."

Harry wrenched open the door and yanked the tapestry aside so hard that Barnabas the Barmy let out a high-pitched scream as he stomped out.

Hermione's face crumpled like a wet tissue, and she slumped forward. Ron caught her by the shoulders and tucked her head into his chest. She sobbed brokenly, and Ron tentatively patted the back of her head, looking lost.

"He doesn't mean it. He's just being a right plonker. You know how he gets. Shhh."

Hermione allowed herself to be comforted for a few moments, and then she straightened and took a deep breath.

"Thanks, Ron. Thanks for not leaving too."

"Wouldn't dream of it. And neither will Harry, no matter what falls out of his big mouth. It's been wearing on him a lot, all these muggle murders. He blames himself. He told me that it's his fault that they're dying because he hasn't killed You-Know-Who yet."

"Poor Harry..." Hermione whispered, and she felt torn.

"Just do what you have to do. The best way you can help Harry is to make sure we end this whole stupid war as soon as possible. And if that means that you have to help Snape, then by Merlin, you had better help Snape, no matter how much I throw up in my mouth as I say that."

Ron stuck his tongue out at Hermione, and she gave him a weak smile.

"I'd better go... Professor Snape needs his potion."

Ron nodded, and she squeezed his hand and slipped out.

After Hermione left, Ron collapsed. He felt drained. It was exhausting, being the responsible one for once, trying to hold everything together. How did Hermione do it? He'd just close his eyes for a minute, and then he'd go find Harry and try to calm him down. Just a quick minute of rest wouldn't hurt anything. He settled back, bunched a small pillow behind his head, and let his eyelids droop.

* * *

Draco shuddered as he paced back and forth in front of the wild-eyed trolls scuffling across the tapestry in their tutus. His breathing came in ragged pants, and all he could think was, "I need a place that's safe. I need a place that's safe. I need a place that's safe." When the door materialized, he all but collapsed through it. He bent with his hands on his knees, trying to calm his racing heart. He could smell the cheap vodka on his rumpled robes, hastily thrown on over his pajamas. He must have spilled some when he reached for his customary post-nightmare drink.

The room looked exactly the same as the last few times he was there, with the same armchairs, and the same chessboard. Was there some sort of mistake? Maybe this secret room wasn't quite as amazing as everyone thought it was. Typical Gryffindors, blowing everything out of proportion. He squinted toward the far side to see a fireplace that hadn't been there the last few times he had met Ron at the chessboard, and there was a familiar-looking red-topped lump in front of it.

Draco was in no mood for company, especially not from Potter's sidekick. Although, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, it hadn't been all bad being forced to spend time with Weasel, had it? They had been summoned for their enforced chess sessions twice more since that first evening, and each time, during their conversations about Quidditch and their not-quite-taunts at each others' playing skills, Draco felt the muscles above his shoulder blades start to unknot ever so slightly. It felt good to be social, to be treated like a normal person instead of someone to fear or toady to or despise under a thin layer of toleration. For everything Draco had always disliked about him, Ron was true to his word in that he'd treat Draco like a person.

Even so, Draco was in no mood for company right now. He'd escaped from the Slytherin dormitory because he felt suffocated by the presence of his snoring roommates, and he just wanted to sit on his own someplace quiet and safe until the room stopped spinning. He backed away slowly, meaning to tiptoe toward the door, but he trod on his untied shoelace and stumbled. His wand slipped out of his sleeve and clattered to the floor.

"Whattimezat?" moaned the jumble of robes by the fireplace. Ron slowly propped himself up on his elbows and blinked his bleary eyes. "Ferret. Whatchu doin here?"

"Contrary to popular belief, Weasel, you Gryffindors have not staked your sole claim to the entirety of the castle as of yet."

"Wha's wrong, mate? You don't look right."

Draco opened his mouth to answer and was spectacularly sick. Ron grimaced and heaved himself up. Apparently his role as the official grown-up wasn't over yet.

"Merlin's sake, Ferret, how much did you drink?"

Draco moaned and shook his head. The tang of vomit filled the small room, cut by the strong smell of the vodka. Ron decided he didn't really want to know. He Evanesco-ed the mess and helped Draco to the familiar silver chair. He plopped himself down on the gold chintz across the board and eyed the young Slytherin. Draco had been looking pretty ragged over the past few weeks, but Ron had never seen him look quite this rough. His blonde hair was disheveled and greasy, and the shadows under his eyes were purple-black in their intensity.

Draco wouldn't meet his eyes. He stared at the board and waved a pale hand. The pieces immediately stopped milling about and socializing and marched across the squares back to their starting line-up.

"What? What time is it?" Ron checked his scratched Chudley Cannons watch. "It's just gone half two in the morning. Merlin, Ferret, we can't play chess at half two. Not to mention the fact that you're pissed off your arse."

"Pawn to A-3," Draco whispered.

Ron rolled his eyes and rubbed his temples with his thumb and middle finger. They started to play. The game was fast-paced and sloppy, both players making silly mistakes and not quite capitalizing on the capture opportunities the other's careless moves opened up. It got to the point where even the pieces started tutting and shaking their heads, especially the queens as they picked up their skirts and shuffled out of certain death traps, time and time again.

Finally, Ron put Draco in a checkmate, more by accident than anything. Draco's king clapped sarcastically a few times, and Ron scowled at him before looking up at Draco. For the first time that evening, Draco met his eyes.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

They both stood up and left the room. In the hallway, Ron turned toward Draco.

"You know, you're going to be alright. Underneath the layer of absolute prickishness, you're really not that bad of a guy."

The corners of Draco's mouth rose a few millimeters.

"For being a gormless Weasel, you're not too bad yourself."

Ron chuckled and shook his head, and the boys parted to head for their dormitories.

AN: I know it's been ages since I've updated, and I apologize. I've started a job in a call center, and as a life-long introvert who hates even being on the phone long enough to order pizza, talking on the phone for up to nine hours each day leaves me absolutely drained when I get home. But I'm determined to start writing again and not let this soul-sucking job take that away from me. So here I am again! If anyone's still reading from before, thanks for sticking with me. :)


	6. Chapter 6

Severus groaned and attempted to extricate his arm from the ball of warmth his body had formed under his trusty duvet. Without opening his eyes, he grabbed out for the handle that he knew would be in the exact same place, pointing right toward him on his bedside table. Today, his knuckles rapped smooth stoneware, and the heavy mug tumbled to the floor with a crash.

A startled Albus dashed into the room.

"Severus! What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, old man," Severus grouched as he tried to pull himself up onto his elbows. The tremors wouldn't let him, and he collapsed back down onto the bed with a huff.

"Not to worry, my boy," Albus said, his own voice still crackly with sleep, as he cast a wandless Repairo on the mug. "I'll just go and refill this."

Severus groaned and shut his eyes against the fluorescent yellow rubber ducks adorning the Headmaster's dressing gown until the older man left the room. So dawned the first day that he didn't have Miss Granger flitting around underfoot. Blessed peace at last-perhaps today he would manage to get some proper research done.

Albus and his subtly quacking terry cloth flock re-appeared in the doorway, and Severus groaned as he took the proffered drink.

"Must you wear that thing?"

"Absolutely. I'd wear it all around the castle if I didn't suspect that everyone would think I'd completely lost my gobstones. I'll just leave this here for you."

The Headmaster placed the mug down and hummed a little tune as he left the room. Severus snarled, fighting the urge to chuck this one on the floor on purpose. He had forgotten how much of a bloody morning person Albus was. He gulped down the potion without even a wince, and he felt some relief flood into his limbs. He wasn't sure if he was just imagining it, but it didn't quite do the trick like it normally did. Bloody Albus must not have put enough Fireflower in.

He heaved himself up and out to his breakfast and books to start his day of productive research, setting up his dictoquill with shaking hands and trying very hard to avoid thinking about who exactly was thoughtful enough to set him up with it in the first place. He shoveled eggs and toast into his mouth with wild abandon, relishing the fact that he didn't have to worry about manners as he was, finally, blessedly alone.

About an hour later, fully engrossed in his work, he muttered, "Do you think that erumpant horn would be too volatile to add in with the ashwinder eggs, Hermione?"

The silence in the room grew loud and unsettling.

Severus moved the dictoquill to his impromptu to-do list of things he had yet to look into.

"Remember to research if curse has any mental side effects, including turning victim into a bloody looney."

Hermione couldn't believe it. She had fallen absolutely head over heels in love with Iceland. From the very first day that the plane touched down at Keflavik airport and the airport shuttle bus trundled through the lava fields toward Reykjavik, she felt intoxicated by the very air. Even her parents began to tease her about it, joking that they should leave her behind.

For the first couple of days, they played the consummate tourists. They sampled the Icelandic tasting menus at the restaurants in Reykjavik's city center, and Hermione mentally begged forgiveness as curiosity got the better of her and she nibbled a few bites of foods like puffin, slimy and served with blueberries, and whale, an unsightly purple and iron-tanged.

She absolutely drew the line at all the horse-meat dishes, however, mainly for the fact that the second day of their trip, Hermione's parents had booked an experience riding Icelandic ponies. Mentally, Hermione adored the feeling of sitting astride the stout, steady animals as they plodded through the impossibly green and desolate fields, and she couldn't help grinning like an idiot when it was her turn to nudge her horse into a swift run. Physically, however, Hermione learned a very important lesson about horse-back riding: Sports bra. Always the sports bra. She would be wincing and subtly rubbing at her chest for days to come.

However, Hermione's favorite activity so far had to be the Golden Circle tour whisking them around the huge, gushing waterfalls and spitting, smoking geysers. Hermione's skin prickled into goosebumps as she gazed out at the desolate beauty of the landscape of Þingvellir, and it wasn't just because of the very un-summer-like chill in the air. It had been a very long time since Hermione had felt something truly mysterious, something she couldn't be confident she could run and get an answer for by putting in time at the library, and it was leaving her ever so slightly off balance in a delicious way. She wondered if it had to do with the history of the place-it was, after all, the site of the world's first independent parliament-or the geology, as she stood in between tectonic plates as the earth literally birthed itself under her feet.

As she hiked up the path in between the spindly towers of young, black rock, lagging a bit behind her parents, she let her thoughts drift to Severus. She couldn't help but wonder how he was doing, even though for the past few days, she had violently chucked away any thought of him that managed to squeak through her mental defenses. She still hadn't forgiven him for his callousness, and she wouldn't. What he said was beyond the pale. But still, she couldn't help almost... missing him. She missed the way he actually showed interest when she went off on a tangent about something obscure, making suggestions instead of rolling his eyes like the boys did. And every time she made the taciturn man laugh in his rich, rumbling, throaty way, she felt like she had earned it.

Without thinking, she knelt down and scooped up two of the porous, dark grey rocks that littered the path, rubbing them together in the palm of her hand, pushing them against and around each other in the warmth of her pocket as she contemplated.

The next day, her parents had planned a morning visit to the Phallic Museum followed by the rest of the day at the Elf School. Hermione had gaped and felt her face color when they suggested she come along to the former and thought the latter was a complete waste of money, so as politely as she could muster, she told them that she'd prefer to spend the day exploring on her own, thank you very much.

The day went by quicker than she had expected-the constant and unchanging sunlight around the clock was playing havoc with Hermione's body clock-and it was evening when she finally glanced down at her watch. She had spent a good chunk of the day in the National Museum of Iceland, immersing herself in Icelandic history and lore, followed by a wholly uninspiring trip up the imposing yet bland jagged spire of Hallgrímskirkja. The rest of the time she spent wandering the city. The combination of 1950s architecture and the easy pace of softly urban life comforted her. Here, in this strange land of rumbling, bubbling earth and elves and trolls, nothing seemed to worry or phase anyone. Everyone seemed so relaxed that Hermione let herself be lured into the easy rhythm.

Her stomach rumbled, and she had an inexplicable craving for what she would never have dreamed of eating anywhere else-a hot dog. Ever since the guide in the museum had talked about hot dogs and coke being basically the national food of Iceland, she couldn't shake the niggling urge to sink her teeth in one. She thumbed through her guidebook for the map that would lead her to Baejarins Beztu Pylsur, the so-called best hotdog stand in Reykjavic, and in next to no time she found herself trying to balance two dogs and a cup of soda while vying for a seat at one of the picnic tables near the red and white stand. Eventually, she gave up and wandered a few blocks before settling on a bench beside a little-used intersection of two pedestrianized streets.

The crunch of the crispy onions and the sweet tang of whatever the brown sauce was that intermingled with the mustard left Hermione in sinful taste bud heaven, and she kept her eyes closed as she savored the first hot dog bite by bite.

"Hi."

Hermione jumped. The slight man hopped up on the other end of the bench.

"... Hello?"

Hermione cautiously eyed the stranger. He was small, child-sized, no more than five feet tall if that, and pale, with delicate, bird-like bones. His black hair towered over his forehead in an impressive pompadour, and his leather jacket gleamed, freshly polished. The jacket and waxed hairdo clashed with the knee-length breeches with buttons on the cuffs and the tall socks pulled up to meet them. He grinned, and his smile took up half his face.

"You like my new coat?" He outstretched his arms and gestured to the black leather. "Just got them. Latest fashion, you know. Scared the _helvíti _out of everyone at home, but a guy has to move with the times, yeah?"

Hermione tried very hard to not let her confusion show on her face. She smiled, nodded, and made a noncommittal noise.

"I'm Alfur, by the way." He extended a delicate hand, and she wiped her free hand on a flimsy napkin. When she shook his hand, she expected it to be delicate and frail, but he gripped with surprising strength. She felt a jolt of warmth travel up her arm and spread across her body, and she gasped.

"What was that?"

"Not to worry." Alfur winked. "I've been told I've got quite a warm personality, once you warm up to me!"

Hermione groaned and couldn't help but chuckle.

"So what's your name? What brings you up near the top of the world?"

"I'm Hermione. I'm here with my family on holiday." She shivered as the handshake's heat faded. The clouds had gathered rapidly overhead, and the wind began to pick up, carrying a spitting mist with it.

"Take this."

Alfur shrugged out of his jacket, leaving him in a navy, tight-fitting woolen coat with round gold buttons down the front.

"No thank you. I'm fine, honestly. It's my own fault for packing like it would still be something like summer over here."

"You want a smoke?" Alfur held out a thin, hand-rolled cigarette, and she shook her head. He pulled out a tarnished silver flask and offered it to her.

"A nip of this will take the chill away."

Hermione shook her head again, although the thought was tempting.

"I know what will cheer you right up!"

Alfur reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the fattest, loveliest, creamiest-looking chocolate bar. Hermione's eyes widened.

"Ohhhh, that looks lovely, but I really can't. I still have this to finish." She held up the rapidly cooling second hotdog. "I really don't think this would taste too good with chocolate. You'll have to tell me where to get one of those later, though."

Alfur leaned back against the metal grille backrest and stared into the middle distance. Hermione tucked into her hotdog, more for something to do to take her mind off the awkward silence than anything else. Had she offended him? The only sound was Hermione's quiet chewing for a good ten minutes or so, until Alfur suddenly turned to her, the humor gone from his glinting dark eyes.

"He needs you. It's time you should return to him. He doesn't know it yet, the _fífl_, but that doesn't change the truth."

"He doesn't even like me!"

"Do you really believe that?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought. Take this. You'll both need it soon."

He grabbed her hand, pried her fingers open, and placed roughly cast bronze pendant in her hand. Hermione held it up to examine, and she saw what looked like some sort of, well, war-snowflake etched into its face. Eight spokes extended from the center, each with three perpendicular lines through it and ending with a speared crescent, forming a trident.

"It's called _Aegishjalmur_," he said. "Use it well."

Alfur stood, shrugging back into his jacket and smoothing his palm against his coiffed hair. He bowed to Hermione and turned away.

"Wait! How did you know? What do I do with this?"

"Don't give up on him, Hermione. And tell him the _Huldufólk _send him their regards."

Alfur vanished. There was no crack of Apparition. He just ceased to be visible in the space of one second. Hermione heard soft footsteps against the paving stones and a faint whistling of an unfamiliar tune, and then silence.

Bang!

Severus chucked the heavy book into the corner, where it hit the wall in a cloud of dust and fell hard, landing face-down and open, pages crinkled. Madame Pince would have his head for that. Severus could not bring himself to care.

"Nothing! There's nothing! And I can't even pour a bloody drink."

He eyed his whisky cabinet longingly and scowled. Albus was gone for a meeting with some government bigwig or three, and Severus had to fend for himself for most of the day. Albus had left him with several doses of his potion mixture kept under the shimmering bubble of a warming statis charm. An empty bubble now, though.

There was no avoiding it in Severus's mind any longer-he was getting worse. The potions Albus left should have gotten him through a day with one or two to spare, and he had drained them all within the space of six hours. He had noticed the symptoms returning sooner and sooner (and seemingly with a grudge to bear) for the past two or three days or so, but out of sheer bloodymindedness, he hadn't been able to will himself to tell Albus. He hated having the old man babysit him enough as it was. He just wanted to be left alone to research.

Not that that was getting anywhere either, though. The first day that he was on his own, he reached nothing but papery dead ends. As he started suffering more and more, even Severus couldn't focus through the tremors that wracked his body, let alone have the dexterity to turn a page.

He turned to where the dictoquill sat poised, tip against the page and feather vertical.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" he shouted, and he scooped it all up between quivering palms and flung it behind the sofa.

"Is this what I'm reduced to, an idiot talking to himself in an empty room? At least I'm free of the sainted Miss Granger for a few more days," he spat. "As if she wants to be here anyway. She'd rather be somewhere playing the perfect little schoolgirl and sticking her tongue down Weasley's throat. And yet she shows up, pretends like she gives a damn. Perfect little Gryffindor, doing her duty!"

He kicked at the coffee table, sending plates and cutlery flying. He grabbed a tumbler from the mantlepiece and smashed it down to the floor. He staggered around the room, destroying anything remotely fragile that he could still pick up, until he stood surrounded by shards and pieces.

"Stupid little chit, acting like she cares. Making me laugh. Making me forget. Making me bloody miss having her around."

Severus's words poured out of his mouth in a rush and shocked him, and he swayed on his feet. It must be the curse talking, making him even crazier than he suspected. That would be just like Lucius, making him care about a student, even _need _a student. Now that was devious, even for Lucius.

"The sooner she gets back, the better. Albus is shit at making my tea, anyway."

He chuckled slightly to himself. Albus put enough sugar in his tea that Severus suspected the Headmaster's teeth were held together by a latticework of magic and nothing else. At least he was feeling a little bit better, mentally. Perhaps he would give reading another crack, perhaps some fiction to occupy his mind until Hermione got back and could put a charm on his books to help him flip the delicate pages.

Severus took two steps toward his bookcase, and then his world went black.

AN: Thanks for the encouragement, lovely readers! This chapter was challenging to write, especially after three nine-hour stints working in a call center! Let me know what you think.

In case you can't tell, I adore Iceland—it's one of my favorite places in the entire world. The culture definitely has a weird, semi-American, 1950s flair to it, combined with the most breathtaking scenery I've ever had the privilege to take in, although by golly is it COLD, even in July! I've (loosely) based Alfur on the elves of Icelandic lore. They're well worth a Google, if you're interested in that type of thing.


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